art. I haven’t thought much about how I can apply what I do to some sort of job that will earn a living. But Erik has and he’ll take on anything, no matter how tough.
He gives a shit.
moving
I’m alone when I ring the bell to Davis’s house at nine sharp. It’s a big three-story house here on Mansion Hill, overlooking Lake Mendota. You’d think the Graysons have money but the truth is that Mr. Grayson just likes to appear successful. Davis told me once that his dad barely breaks even every month and that a lot of his money goes to the huge mortgage and taxes. All in the name of looking wealthy. No wonder Mr. Grayson wants Davis to move out. Now he gets all the frozen dinners to himself.
Mr. Grayson answers the door. He’s a small, nearly invisible slice of milquetoast.
“Good morning, Evan,” he says in a listless voice. “Davis is upstairs. Thank you for helping him.”
I was hoping Mr. Grayson would be at his office. He must be working from home today so he can make sure Davis is out on time. What a guy.
I nod, step past him, bound up the stairs and down the hall to the second room on the right. I knock on the closed door.
When there’s no response, I open it slowly. His room looks like Tetris threw up inside. There are boxes—cubes, rhomboids—piled everywhere. Half of his stuff isn’t even packed. A mound of dirty laundry stinks up the middle of the room. Davis is sprawled on his twin bed, facedown, wearing only a pair of tighty-whiteys.
“Up and at ’em, soldier!” I bark, tossing a shirt at him. He moans and stirs, then shoots me a look of hot, flaming death. “Did Sable call?”
“Mmpgh,” Davis gargles, crawling to the pile of clothes on the floor. He throws on some pants and resumes packing while I begin lugging boxes downstairs to the truck. Mr. Grayson makes a show of glancing up at us and then over at the grandfather clock each time we pass by his study. We’re very aware of our deadline: Davis must be out by noon.
At ten thirty, when I see that Sable isn’t going to show, I pick up the pace. Davis makes an excuse for him; Sable’s new to town and is probably having trouble finding the house. Every time I look at the clock, Davis has another excuse. He’ll be here soon, Davis promises, but he starts moving more quickly.
It’s eleven fifty-eight when we shove the last box inthe truck. Davis climbs in the passenger seat. I glance back at the house. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” I’m stupid to ask.
“Just drive.”
We park on the side street next to the RYC. Malaika is there to greet us. She hugs Davis and we go into her office to do paperwork. The rules of the house: It’s temporary housing; he can stay a maximum of ninety days. After two weeks, he needs to pay thirty bucks a week for rent. If he can’t afford that, he’ll be given odd jobs to do around the Center and must complete them in order to stay. No overnight guests; all non-residents must be out of the building by eleven p.m. As Davis begins signing his life away on a dozen forms, I snag the room keys so I can start hauling boxes.
I’m dropping off the first load to Davis’s stark room when the door across the hall opens. Sable, hand shielding his eyes, leans on the door frame and smiles.
“Hey, guy.”
He looks like he slept in his clothes. His big toe sticks out from a formerly white sock. His voice is light and airy and his head sways slightly. His other hand holds a clear plastic bag containing a dozen translucent-brown prescription bottles. He sees me glance at the bag and shakes it like a baby’s rattle. “I loves me some vitamins.”
A sweet, earthy odor—carried on a thin sheen ofsmoke—filters from his room into the hall. He’s high.
I’m pissed but I make a joke. “Morning, sunshine. We been waiting on you. Party can’t start without you.”
Sable squints that way people do when they struggle to remember. Then he chuckles and nods. “Yeah, right. You and Little
He gives a shit.
moving
I’m alone when I ring the bell to Davis’s house at nine sharp. It’s a big three-story house here on Mansion Hill, overlooking Lake Mendota. You’d think the Graysons have money but the truth is that Mr. Grayson just likes to appear successful. Davis told me once that his dad barely breaks even every month and that a lot of his money goes to the huge mortgage and taxes. All in the name of looking wealthy. No wonder Mr. Grayson wants Davis to move out. Now he gets all the frozen dinners to himself.
Mr. Grayson answers the door. He’s a small, nearly invisible slice of milquetoast.
“Good morning, Evan,” he says in a listless voice. “Davis is upstairs. Thank you for helping him.”
I was hoping Mr. Grayson would be at his office. He must be working from home today so he can make sure Davis is out on time. What a guy.
I nod, step past him, bound up the stairs and down the hall to the second room on the right. I knock on the closed door.
When there’s no response, I open it slowly. His room looks like Tetris threw up inside. There are boxes—cubes, rhomboids—piled everywhere. Half of his stuff isn’t even packed. A mound of dirty laundry stinks up the middle of the room. Davis is sprawled on his twin bed, facedown, wearing only a pair of tighty-whiteys.
“Up and at ’em, soldier!” I bark, tossing a shirt at him. He moans and stirs, then shoots me a look of hot, flaming death. “Did Sable call?”
“Mmpgh,” Davis gargles, crawling to the pile of clothes on the floor. He throws on some pants and resumes packing while I begin lugging boxes downstairs to the truck. Mr. Grayson makes a show of glancing up at us and then over at the grandfather clock each time we pass by his study. We’re very aware of our deadline: Davis must be out by noon.
At ten thirty, when I see that Sable isn’t going to show, I pick up the pace. Davis makes an excuse for him; Sable’s new to town and is probably having trouble finding the house. Every time I look at the clock, Davis has another excuse. He’ll be here soon, Davis promises, but he starts moving more quickly.
It’s eleven fifty-eight when we shove the last box inthe truck. Davis climbs in the passenger seat. I glance back at the house. “Aren’t you going to say good-bye?” I’m stupid to ask.
“Just drive.”
We park on the side street next to the RYC. Malaika is there to greet us. She hugs Davis and we go into her office to do paperwork. The rules of the house: It’s temporary housing; he can stay a maximum of ninety days. After two weeks, he needs to pay thirty bucks a week for rent. If he can’t afford that, he’ll be given odd jobs to do around the Center and must complete them in order to stay. No overnight guests; all non-residents must be out of the building by eleven p.m. As Davis begins signing his life away on a dozen forms, I snag the room keys so I can start hauling boxes.
I’m dropping off the first load to Davis’s stark room when the door across the hall opens. Sable, hand shielding his eyes, leans on the door frame and smiles.
“Hey, guy.”
He looks like he slept in his clothes. His big toe sticks out from a formerly white sock. His voice is light and airy and his head sways slightly. His other hand holds a clear plastic bag containing a dozen translucent-brown prescription bottles. He sees me glance at the bag and shakes it like a baby’s rattle. “I loves me some vitamins.”
A sweet, earthy odor—carried on a thin sheen ofsmoke—filters from his room into the hall. He’s high.
I’m pissed but I make a joke. “Morning, sunshine. We been waiting on you. Party can’t start without you.”
Sable squints that way people do when they struggle to remember. Then he chuckles and nods. “Yeah, right. You and Little
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